


Twenty Years

by Frothulhu



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frothulhu/pseuds/Frothulhu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Alternate Universe fic where John Crocker was around long enough to meet Dave Strider during his rise to fame as a genius movie producer in Hollywood. Over the course of ten years, their relationship develops as the world around them collapses into the control of the Batterwitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 20th Century Boy

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS GONNA BE LONG AND I'M SORRY. I WORK AND GO TO SCHOOL FULL TIME SO THE UPDATES WILL BE SLOW ONES. Having said that, there will be a running theme with the chapter titles and shit so if you get it A MILLION INTERNET POINTS FOR YOU. I love concrit and shit so gimmie gimmie gimmie. If you wanna follow me on tumblr too das coo im davestriderschoicebooty

Dave never really considered himself a wallflower when it came to parties. He was usually the center of attention, standing behind the turntables and DJing until the sun came up at all of the biggest parties. Hell, it was the DJing that got his foot in the door of the movie industry and got him where he was tonight. He had rocked the party of someone high up in a studio somewhere within Hollywood. Cards were exchanged, a script was emailed and here he was in the midst of having his shit splayed across the big screen.

Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff, the shitty comic that he had started at the age of thirteen, was being developed into a movie series. There were well over fifty strips when he stopped, some of them having story lines others just being random bits of odd ball humour that were obviously wastes of time that filled the empty space while his best friend was off doing other things, like practicing her writing or living her life in New York, away from him and the Texan playgrounds where they had met.

She was his biggest supporter, really, and it was in part due to her pushing that he even took up the opportunity to email his script to the director he had exchanged information with. Now, here he was, standing around idly with a glass of bubbly and no one to talk to. It was so tempting to call Rose right now, but he needed to look available and ready for any questions from anyone. Not that he expected them to come. He was a newbie on the scene.

Dave Strider was twenty years old and sitting on the cusp of fame and fortune in Hollywood. If this went somewhere, he would be set for life if he played his cards right. He took a deep swallow of his champagne and cringed at the too sweet taste mixed with the carbonation.

These Hollywood shindigs were really quite dry and god he was so bored. It was a promotional party, getting the word out for the newest movies and upcoming media to try and drum up sponsor attention. Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson were there, which left him internally gob smacked. They had accepted the roles happily and had already began filming.

There was a decent crowd of people gathered not too far away from where he stood. He watched them undulate, the occasional burst of laughter from the crowd. He drew closer to the crowd, realising as he approached that there was a single voice booming from the center, recounting stories of personal hilarity and his irritating next door neighbour. He didn’t mingle with the crowd, instead just listened, chuckling at the strings of pure comedic gold that spilled from the lips of the older gentleman in the middle of the crowd.

He has tall and stocky in build, with a ridiculous overbite, large thick frames and a well groomed mustache. Despite his rather hilarious and ridiculous look, he was quite charming. His eyes twinkled as he regaled the crowd with a tale of when he was younger, a neighbour of his that was quite the regular partaker of illicit substances would frequently fondle him, seeking for god knows what. More drugs, money for more drugs or perhaps a little something something to be paid so he could by more drugs. He never found out the guys name, but he had referred to him as Neo amongst his friends due to his uncanny resemblance to Keanu Reeves.

The crowd eventually dispersed and Dave made his way to the tables set up in the theatre. They were fed food more rich and luxurious than Dave could have ever believed existed. For the next two hours, people made their way up onto the stage, promoting their movies with perfect Hollywood smiles and the best dresses and biggest diamonds money could consider. Directors, producers, writers and actors spoke their pieces. Videos and slide shows of photos were played of film crews and actors on set, preparing for the movie. If there were trailers, they were played to entice the crowd.

Dave got up on stage with his director, who did most of the talking, Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson. Production was slow and had only started a week ago, much to the chagrin of his director. When asked about this, Dave only replied that it was all a part of the process. Everyone who got involved in the project was now and forever entrenched in it. When asked if that meant he intended to be more than one movie, Dave only shrugged.

“We’ll see.”

His cryptic responses left the crowd buzzing, and though his director looked at him with massive amounts of uncertainty, Ben and Owen were practically vibrating with excitement. Their time in the spotlight was soon over, and the four made their way back to their table. For the rest of the dinner, Dave listened to the actors squabble with the director, standing up with him despite his reasonable amounts of doubt. It meant something, he supposed, that his actors believed in his vision. Besides, the director couldn’t just up and quit. He made sure to include some binding agreements in his contract. Dave had all of his bases covered.

The dinner was over and the people were filing out to take their various modes of limos home. Owen and Ben stayed behind to once again thank Dave for seeing them in his perfect comedic vision. Ben pulled out a glasses case and handed it over to him.

“Here, man. I heard you were a fan of that movie. They let me keep these, so if you want them, they’re all yours.”

Dave took the case hesitantly and opened them, his eyes widening behind the shades he already wore. Internally, Dave was having a shit fit. Really, he was being given the shades that Ben wore in Starsky and Hutch?! From Stiller himself?! HOPY SHIT.

“Thanks man,” Dave replied with a cool nod, slipping the case into his pocket. Ben grinned and headed towards the door with Owen in tow, giving him a wave. Dave returned it, watching the two head out the door, before sighing and turning to head to the well underused parking lot to drive his beat up Honda Civic home.

“Young man, your brand of humour is simply refreshing!”

Dave stopped in his tracks, recognising the voice. It was that comedian. John Crocker, was it? He also had been there promoting a new comedic routine he would be releasing on the comedy networks in the upcoming months.

“Afraid I’m going to make you irrelevant?”

There was a chuckle and Dave imagined that Crocker was shaking his head, “My brand of comedy will never become irrelevant, Mister Strider.”

Dave turned to face him, still completely stunned by the amount of pure charm this dorky man seemed to exude. He was confident and a wisdom defined by humour twinkled in his surprisingly blue eyes. Dave found himself staring, though fortunately, his shades hid that fact well enough.

“I’m simply intrigued by your apparent sense of humour. You don’t seem to be a very funny person from the way your lips are tightly pursed. If anything your personality tells me that you’re a perfectionist. Anal retentive, as the saying so goes.”

John grinned and Dave narrowed his eyes. Was he being insulted?

“Looks can be deceiving,” Dave simply replied, his voice as deadpan as his pokerface.

“Which is why you fascinate me so. Usually those of us in the comedy profession are funny people by nature, whether our humour is dry or completely slapstick. If you’re interested, perhaps we can take a stroll to a local bar and discuss your vision further?”

Dave felt as if time slowed for a second, staring at the other for seemingly eternity as he debated his answer internally. This dude was a comedic legend, a genius. Really, he could learn something from him. If this was John’s way of subtly telling him he could mentor him, he wouldn’t say no.

He nodded, “Yeah, why not. I’m not old enough to drink, though.”

John waved him off and headed in the direction of the parking lot. Dave followed him closely, hands shoved into his pockets, and gripping the case in his pocket.

No more words were exchanged between the two as they made their way out to the parking lot to slip into John’s modest but stylish BMW. Dave was mildly impressed. This man was so successful he could afford to drive a shitty overpriced German vehicle. The lights flashed as John clicked the unlock button from his key ring and the two slid into the bucketed leather seats. Dave’s feet crashed against a bag and a Styrofoam cup emblazoned with familiar golden arches. He quirked a brow and looked to John who shrugged with a small smile.

“Excuse the mess.”

It was true. Even celebrities ate McDonalds.

The drive to the bar was a short and quiet one, with NPR droning on quietly in the background. John tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to some tune that played in his head as Dave stared out the window, wondering why he had agreed to go out with this man he had just met. Perhaps tomorrow there would be sensationalist news reports as to the strange disappearance of the up and coming movie writing prodigy Dave Strider. In a week, the entire country would mourn his loss as they found his remains in the dumpster behind Shoney’s in Hollywood.

What a brilliantly ironic end. Dave smirked at his own humour.

“What’s got your expression changing?”

He looked in John’s direction and shrugged his shoulders.

“Just weighing the odds of my body being found in a dumpster in roughly a week.”

John laughed a deep solid sound that didn’t quite boom but was loud enough to be true laughter and not something condescending. He felt somewhat proud. John smiled at him and cut the power to the car, everything settling into silence as the engine clicked with coolant.

“Shall we?”

Dave didn’t bother replying, instead opening the door and sliding out of the car. John followed suit and the two of them made their way into the small hole in the wall hidden deep within some alley. It was obvious from the way things went when they entered that John came here at least semifrequently. The bartender nodded and immediately sent a bus boy over to a far corner to clean up a seat that was quiet and out of the way.

“The usual then?” the barkeep asked as he polished a high ball glass, setting it on the bar. John replied with a smile and a simple nod. The bartender regarded Dave and spoke with a stereotypical accent, “And for you?”

Dave considered his wallet for a moment, “Pabst Blue Ribbon.”

The bartender snorted and even John chuckled a bit at his response, patting his shoulder in an oddly familiar manner that made Dave’s heart flutter in his chest and his suspicion of ending up in a dumpster rise substantially.

“I’ll be paying for your drinks.”

Dave stared at him for a moment, weighing his options. Well, he couldn’t be drugged with roofies if his drink was with him, right? He shrugged.

“Top shelf rum and coke.”

The bartender nodded and swiftly moved to prepare their drinks. In the meantime, John and Dave made their way over to the now cleaned table. It was dark and private, like Dave suspected, with only several candles providing them with any sort of decent lighting. He and John sat across from each other. With things this dark, he was forced to remove his shades in order to properly see his companion, and though the act made him incredibly uncomfortable, he didn’t really have much choice. Besides, the guy was buying him a top shelf rum and coke, he really owed him something, didn’t he?

“So what questions did you have about my anal retentive sense of humour?” Dave asked dryly, cutting to the chase. John smiled at him, an action that made Dave idly consider punching him in the teeth.

“Well, I’ve been picking up on some of it. Your preview, as well as your interaction with Ben and Owen on stage let me see a little bit into who you are, as well as your clever little quip in the car. I just wonder what do you, Dave Strider, find funny? What is your ideal comedy?”

Dave shrugged and sat back in in the booth, folding his hands on the table in a delightfully stereotypical fashion. It earned himself a pat on the back from himself, and really, who else was there to impress? Other than the world’s most famous comedic legend, at least.

“Irony,” he said simply.

“Irony?”

Dave gave a nod and elaborated further, “The thing about ironic humour is that no one expects it. Therefore, the fact that my comedic style focuses on the delicious irony that fills life itself, no one ever seems to expect the ironic moments, or the ironic comedy. Sometimes what happens is so fucking out of left field that no one sees it coming and you laugh at how fucking stupid it is.”

John chuckled and shrugged his shoulders, “I believe I understand what you mean here, Dave. Is it alright if I call you that?”

“Why the fuck would I care?”

“Just being polite.”

“You mean boring.”

“Whichever helps you sleep better at night.”

Dave held his tongue. Fortunately, right at that moment, their drinks were delivered. Dave picked up his and took a sip, savouring the burn of the rum and the coke of the coke. John’s collins glass appeared to hold an amber liquid, and Dave mentally bet his left kidney that what he was drinking was scotch. Dave took another sip and placed the glass down against the table with a clack.

“Anyway, slapstick humour, no offense, is something everyone can laugh at. Someone sees an idiot slip on a banana peel or get splashed by a puddle in the rain, of course you’re going to laugh. Slapstick plays off of shadenfreude. Hell, most humour, if not all of it does. Slapstick is really guilty of this.”

John raised a curious eyebrow, his glass resting against his lips. 

“From what I’ve seen, most of your movie focuses on slapstick humour. I don’t get whats so ironic about slapstick? How is falling down a flight of stairs ironic?”

Dave shrugged, taking another sip of his drink, “Well, from everything I told you, you wouldn’t have expected slapstick, would you?”

John stared at him for a moment before giving a good hearty laugh, shaking his head, “I see why the studios feel you’re a genius. That is quite clever.”

Dave smirked in response before shrugging and taking another long drink from his cup, “I was bullshitting. It just happened to fit. I was following how the comic went when i drew it at the ripe old age of thirteen. I thought I was an irony master back then.”

John was still smiling at him through the lenses of his glasses, excitement shining through even in the darkness of the bar they were in, “The fact that you could bullshit a response so easily is thrilling!”

Dave had to raise an eyebrow at that, just watching John as he continued to speak animatedly about his craft. He held a clear passion for it and that let Dave know that there lay the reason that he was so famous for what he did. Really, he should be honoured to be in the presence of someone so comically famous, but he had no idea who this dude was.

He supposed thats what happened when you didn’t make a habit of watching stand up and yet called yourself something of a comedian. Dave quickly made a note to marathon some stand up comedy over the next few weeks, mostly focusing on the works of John Crocker.

The night continued in a similar manner, the two exchanging a series of increasingly hilarious quips, Dave loosening up quickly as alcohol was funneled down his throat. By the time the bar closed several hours later, John had long since stopped drinking while Dave had gotten completely smashed. John paid the tab with no complaints and looped his arm around Dave’s shoulder, leading the younger man out of the bar. Dave stumbled next to him, barely holding his grip on John as he was led to the passengers side door of John’s car. The older man managed to click the unlock button on his keyring, his car beeping pleasantly to inform him that his attempts at unlocking the doors were successful.

Now came the effort of getting the door open. John roughly shifted Dave in his arms, the blond laughing madly at whatever madness was in his brain as John unintentionally shoved him against the side of the car, just shy of the door. Dave fumbled, attempting to press back against John as the older of the two pulled open the car door.

“Is this where you take me back to your apartment and murder me?” Dave slurred, a grin plastered on his face. John looked at him and chuckled a bit, shaking his head.

“No. That’s after the third time.”

John tugged at Dave and directed him to sit in the passengers seat. The other flopped into the seat with ease and just sat back as John grunted, fastening the seat belt, before closing the door. John got into the drivers side and settled in, turning the car on and pulling into traffic.

Dave just stared at John through out the trip, muttering his address in slurred tones when John requested it of him. Only right now did he feel fucking fantastic at being able to be this close to someone so famous and here he was making a complete fool of himself. Dave’s eyes drifted shut behind the dark lenses of his shades, suddenly feeling heavy.

“Hey John?” he muttered, not entirely aware that he was speaking.

“Hmm?”

“Sorry for making a complete tool out of myself tonight.”

John simply chuckled, but Dave was asleep before it even registered that he had replied.

The next thing the blond remembered was being drug up his stairs to his apartment and being propped against the wall. He felt hands in his pockets, fingers curling curiously, searching for something and not finding it. Dave groaned in his haze, blindly seeking John out with his hands when the warmth of him left his pockets, his keys having been grabbed.

He faded in and out as he was pulled into his apartment and shoved into his bed, fingers swiftly working at the buttons on his dress shirt, and his belt being loosened. He vaguely considered what all of this meant before he was out again, snoring against his sheets. 

\- -

Dave awoke the next morning on his side, his head pounding. It took him a few moments to realise that his phone was ringing. He picked up the phone, wincing as he automatically answered it, not bothering to see who was actually calling him.

 

“Nngh… what?”

“DAVE. DAVE. OH MY GOD. WE GOT SPONSORS. WE GOT THEM.”

Dave held the phone away from his ear sharply, glaring at the screen as the voice of his director screamed over the other end in glee from their sponsorships.

“Dude, fuckin’ chill okay man, I got the worst hangover ever right now,” he muttered, placing the phone to his ear once the screeching ceased.

“Hang over? Who did you go drinking with?”

“John Crocker,” he muttered, looking around his room to see if anything had changed. He barely even remembered getting out of the bar, let alone home. He noticed something on his bedside table and picked it up, looking over it.

dave,

that was perhaps the most thrilling night i’ve had in a long while, my friend. i do hope we can meet up again for drinks. don’t worry about how you seemed, you are young and full of life and i don’t mind it in the least. i’ve left you my phone number, as well as an uncut copy of my most recent dvd to have a look at. i hope you enjoy it.

-j. crocker

 

“Dave? Dave?”

“What?”

“Did you hear any of that?”

“Naw, John left me a copy of his DVD and his phone number. I just found it. What were you saying?”

“Well,” his director began, taking a deep breath, “I have the list of our product sponsors.”

“Yeah? Who?” Dave muttered, idly reading over the DVD box in his hand, trying to tune into what the other was saying on the phone.

“Coke, Apple, Sony, MAC, Sketchers—” Dave snorted at that one, eyeballing his well used Converse, “— Cheetos and… uh… wow I didn’t even know they sponsored movies?”

“Who?”

“Uh. Betty Crocker.”


	2. The Never Ending Why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave nurses a hang over, talks to his sister, and gets to work on actually working in his movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAH THIS TOOK HALF A CENTURY WHOO
> 
> thank to kale for kicking my ass and getting me to finish. dis 1s 4 u

So how long will it be until I see your commercials on the television, Dave?” came a low pitched feminine tone from the ear piece of his iPhone. There was always a slight smirk in Rose's voice and if you didn't know her better, you'd swear she was constantly mocking you inside of her head. Even if you did know her, there was a good chance she was doing just that. Not that it really mattered to Dave. 

“Oh like tomorrow. I'm kind of a big deal now you know,” he replied smoothly, lifting a cracker to his face. His head was pounding the steady beat that the arteries in his brain set to the pressure of his blood. Right now he felt like he should consider seeing a doctor for his blood pressure because dear god his head was a rave party at three in the morning hyped up on ecstasy and alcohol. His stomach was also queasy, which called for a light breakfast of cold tea and dry toast, with some crackers for flavour. 

Mentally, Dave swore to never drink again. Realistically, he placed a bet against himself that said he would be out again by the weekend, partying and celebrating his success. He nibbled on the cracker as his stomach rolled violently and protested against his necessary consumption. 

“I look forward to it,” she replied evenly, “Hows your hangover?”

“I'll never drink again,” he near whined, flopping back in his kitchen fold out chair. Idly, he stared at the cover of the DVD John had left on his bedside table. He had added his phone number to his contact list first thing but wasn't sure if he was actually going to call the man. He considered it perhaps a one night drinking stand and John would forever remember him as that stupid kid who got shitfaced and accused him of being a murderer. 

Really, who the hell would buy a car like his and store bodies in it? The blood would ruin everything. 

“There there brother dear. Ginger tea, dry toast and a few aspirin will help.”

“Yeah, I'm already there,” Dave grumbled as he lifted his cup of tea to his lips and sipped it, grimacing. So bitter and... gingery. Yuck. 

“Hows your book going?”

“Its in the final processes of editing. Then comes the cover design and then it gets put on the shelf,” Rose replied with something of a proud sigh, losing her mocking tone for just a moment. Dave nodded as if she could see his reaction. He was almost certain that she could. It was her, after all. 

“Mmh, so,” Dave began, swallowing his bit of cracker and reaching for another, despite the protests of his gut, “When is your projected date of completion?”

“Sometime in November.”

Dave snorted through his mouthful of cracker, “Thats perfect. That's when my movie comes out.”

"Yes, I know."

Dave chewed quietly as their conversation fell into something of a tense silence.  He stared at the bare almost rotted wooden floor of his small apartment, spreading his toes to keep himself occupied. He didn't like talking about Rose's gift. Her predictions weren't always bad. Some of them were quite good. Despite the fact that he had been extremely skeptical of her abilities in the beginning, she had been right too many times for him to ignore the fact that she had some sort of ability. The question of why he couldn't get the hell over it was one that plagued his mind for at least ten seconds every time they talked, which was infrequent enough to keep them relatively close, but not so often that he grew irritated with their frequency. They had a system and it worked for the both of them. 

"So, how is your development of 3D artifacts going?" Rose asked, successfully changing the subject and breaking the rather dense silence. Dave swallowed his over chewed disgustingly soggy and flavourless saltine.

“Well, the prototype is finished. I just have to take it to the patent office and get that shit secure. Now that I have sponsors, I'm apparently getting my first budget check at the end of this week. I'm going to use that to pay for the patent and some how convince the director that it's necessary for the aesthetic of the movie,” Dave replied evenly, a bit of lightness to his voice. He reached over to his tea and took a rough swallow. It was still disgusting, only now it was disgusting and cold. 

“How much did the development set you back, anyway?” she asked, her tone also taking on a lighter sound.

“You know, believe it or not, I actually made money making this thing?”

Rose chuckled into Dave's ear and he thought that he may have heard her fingers flying over the keys of her keyboard.

“How did you manage that?”

Dave shrugged, “Dunno.”

The call fell into a comfortable silence as Dave ignored his tea and his crackers in favour of being miserable and nursing his throbbing headache that was steadily but slowly fading thanks to the miracles of modern medicine. He eyed the screen of his television, stuck on some news station dedicated to celebrities and all the shit involved in their daily lives. His purpose behind watching it wasn't entirely for the sake of mindless entertainment. He was hoping to see something about John.

John, however, was the kind of famous person that was famous enough to be comfortable and not want for anything, but not so far up on the echeladder of fame that paparazzi were following him around trying to snap pictures of him in his underwear or taking out his rubbish. Right now, the story was focused on a reel of photos of Caroline Rhea depositing her rubbish in the bin wearing a fluffy terry cloth robe in pink with bunny slippers and her hair mussed. 

It was exciting, apparently. 

“I've been meaning to ask, Dave?” Rose began with a questioning lilt to her voice. 

“Ask what.”

“Why is it that you are nursing such a bad hangover. You aren't even old enough to drink.”

Dave bit his bottom lip as he debated the method in which he would answer her. She would probably know he was lying anyway no matter what brilliant and creative truth telling he came up with. 

“I think I had a date with someone. Maybe it's a bit forward of me to say but it kind of felt like a date? A date with an intellectual or something. I barely remember most of it.”

“And your date bought a minor enough drinks so that he got utterly hammered? I'm already impressed with them. I thought you had an event with the studio and trying to pull in sponsor attention? Did you find someone to bring there?”

“No,” Dave drawled out, his gaze shifting away from pictures of someones ass and to the DVD on his table, “I met him there.”

“Oh?” Rose's tone was a mixture of shocked and impressed, “Did you have a date with a movie star, Dave?”

“Not quite.”

“Who then?”

“You ever heard of John Crocker?”

\- -

A week came and went and Dave still had not contacted John. He had been close a few times, but now it was too late for texting because a week after a date and getting a text was essentially a fuck you, and calling just seemed far too awkward and casual for someone that he got drunk and accused of being a psycho killer. His impression grew far worse in his mind and he began to wonder why John even gave him his number. 

Going to the studio was now a daily commute for Dave, and while he felt like some important hot shot going to the studio with his fancy pass and his shitty car and his power over the entire set, it was something that was still a surreal experience for him. The director wasn't taking well to the idea of the 3D JPEG artifacts, saying that it would destroy the movies value, but the manager and the studio said that if he managed to make money by inserting them, then they would approve it no matter what the director said. It was his vision. 

Due to the way that the artifacts were created, they would have to be placed into the movie post production. Dave decided when he was rich and famous (which would be soon) he would develop filming equipment that would do that part for them. It would save time and man power. His budgets would be in the toilet, but his profits would be through the roof and he would be touted a financial guru as well as a writer born in the stars. Yes, he had high hopes for himself, even if secretly he felt like none of this was something that he deserved. 

Dave stood on the set of Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff the Moivie and looked at the set up. Today was the first day of filming. He had been there since five in the morning, having graciously bought pancakes for everyone since his check was deposited into his once empty bank account. What a generous check it was. Later that day, if he didn't pass out in the green room that is, he would be hunting for a new apartment. 

Maybe he would finally get the balls to watch John's DVD too. That was also a thing he hadn't done, despite googling him for hours. He had avoided youtube links and audio clips of his live shows and just read the information. In his 40s, never married, started off as a prop comic and moved on to stand up. Had been in a few movies, and independent films, but mostly ran in the comedy circuits. Other than the information about his childhood (grandson of the late Colonel Sassacre) there wasn't much on his personal life after he graduated from a community college with an associates degree in math. Freaking math. A comedian majoring in math was the biggest joke to him and he wouldn't admit that he had laughed for a good five minutes after reading that. 

It was better than him being an art school drop out, who randomly left campus, took his student loan money and moved to California to be a professional movie writer. He should probably catch up on those loan payments now that he had the funds for it. Dave made a note to pay a few months worth of back payments in his phone. He looked up just as someone came up behind him just to pat him on the shoulder.

“Dave! Thanks for the pancakes, man!”

“Oh. Yeah no problem, Owen. When did you get here?”

“About half an hour ago. Ben is still in the green room. We were reading over the script we're filming while we were eating,” Owen replied with a friendly smile and a nod. Dave felt himself melting slightly. Fucking Owen God Damned Wilson wanted to be in his fucking movie he was just.

“That's cool,” Dave replied, hiding his self labelled idiocy with a blank expression, his eyes hidden by the shades that Ben had given him at the party a week prior. They had barely left his face since. He loved that movie, okay. 

“Do we have to pronounce the words the way they're spelled though?”

Therein lay the trouble of translating a web comic to a movie. Dave shrugged. 

“The giant bolded ones yeah, but you don't have to otherwise. I mean, you've seen the source material, you know how conksucky it is. Go wild. I have faith in your abilities, Owen. If I really don't like something, I'll let you know. Hey, by the way, do you happen to know Donald Glover?”

\- - 

Several more days past before Dave was settled into his new, more comfortable and much less drafty apartment closer to the studio. The rent was higher but he figured he could afford it now that he was making more than minimum wage at a restaurant serving people who liked to think they were famous but paid and tipped like they lived in the gutter. Dave grumbled to himself as he idly recalled his temporary job as he spent his months of free time pounding out the script and delivering it to various studios, hoping to the sky that his first movie wasn't going to be some back yard independent production with the actors wearing Ben Stiller, Owen Wilson and Donald Glover masks just so things fit his mental arrangement just so. 

He was one of the lucky few. Now, he was sitting in a new apartment with eight thousand dollars in his bank account, a movie in the works and a bottle of merlot given to him by Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson. Who were acting. In his movie.

Oh yeah, and Donald Glover, too. 

He was in a constant state of shitting bricks. He had shit enough bricks over the past week to build several Hollywood mansions and the production of said shit bricks wasn't looking to stop anytime soon. He was incredibly blessed and he fucking knew it. Now, if he only could get the confidence he needed in his fucking work in order to actually belong in Hollywood. 

Until then, he would fake it until he made it. 

Dave eyed the bottle of wine sitting on his (new) kitchen table. He vaguely considered sending it to Rose since this was more her thing than his, but how many people owned bottles of wine that were given to them by movie stars? None he knew so they couldn't have been that important. Sorry Rose, he said to himself mentally as he fished around in a drawer for a corkscrew. She would get the next one. He set a reminder in his phone. 

He poured himself a healthy serving of wine into a red Solo cup because that's what you did when you were from the south and used to a life of class. He took a few sips, rolled the flavour around on his tongue and swallowed before deciding he hated it but he would drink it anyway because of who gave it to him. He chugged half the cup before slapping his hand on the DVD case that always seemed to follow him around the house, though he wasn't sure how. Carefully, he opened it and took the case, the cup and the wine into the living room he now had and sat down in front of his (new) television. Into the player the DVD went before he plopped onto the couch.

He laughed almost the entire three hours and fifteen minutes that the DVD played. As it turned out, John was fucking hilarious. As it also turned out, wine got better the more you drank it, and he had finished roughly two glasses at the end of the DVD. He pulled out his phone and looked at it. His lock screen held the image of a photo that had been placed through many filters. It was a picture of a person (him) raising their arms in a v in the background of an abandoned sand park. It was grainy, it was deep, and written smack in the middle of the photo in fluro green comic sans font was the word lettuce.

It was also 10:59 pm.

God he was a genius sometimes.

He slid open the lock on his phone and scrolled through his many contacts to the name John Crocker. He worried his lip between his teeth before he pressed the send button and held his phone up to his ear. 

Maybe one day he would be able to talk to him without being under the influence.


End file.
